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                                                    Tumble-

   weeds we’d have been were it not a

melon patch we were in....

                               —Nathaniel Mackey

Happy Hippie Hill Day!  Needless to say,

I’m excited.  I’m giving each of the

Painting Ladies (a wonderful new twist that

I just caught quite inappropriately) personal

names.  By me.  This one’s Hello, Mister

Boyfriend.  And next to him is Jonah Hill

Is No Christian Bale.  It’s true.  All at once

(and one with) relaxation, a modicum of

technique (how to lie down on a sparsely-

sunlit, mildly moist angle of grass traversed

by more dogs than humans), and no bottled

water (can’t afford, stupidly didn’t bring).

I almost manage to snooze a few minutes

after finishing two books I began a couple

of years ago (plus took a selfie with the

poem that made me cry a little bit).  One
is a book of prayers by someone who doesn’t

pray but seems to sincerely desire to do so

(a whole book built around this, and if

crying indicates goodstuff, it worked in

there somewhere).  Perhaps this one I

actually began only a month ago.  Was

it a Christmas present?  Or just a random

gift that appeared in conjunction or in

the vicinity of the holidays?  I can’t

remember.  But the poem about being

picked up at the hospital as a teenager,

puking drunk, or drunk puking, but

mainly fine, by a father who worked

all night in a bar, who tucked her into

his automobile, and brought her to

work, a foreign place she’d never

once set foot in before; him wrapping

his arms around a trio of monster-size

maraschino cherry jars, gentle and

joyous as if they were newborn

triplets:  the music is gorgeous!

The sun is out.  The spring lures

me in before I sneeze a little to

greet it.  I spend my evenings

with Monsieur Baron Joie de

Vivre (I’ve named a Painting

Lady for him, too), and I

really must do this again

sometime very soon.